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And the years keep coming

I tell myself I’m a good writer with much to say. I used to believe this. I find myself wordless because I don’t have an empty nest nor even a nest to empty. I don’t have a husband to call “the hubs” or something equally putrid. I’m not widowed.

I’ve been divorced so long cobwebs have grown over my memories. The ones who came after–well one could fill a book, but really who cares about normal abuse (if there is such a thing) that took place decades ago?

How could I have lived all these years without realizing that in my beginning of older age I would be judged not by what I accomplished, and granted I was never a doctor or lawyer—though lord did my father try to get me to consider law school–but by what I’m not.

I’m not a great social media maven. I should be but it overwhelms me.

I overcame much of an invisible disability. Me–I did it on my own with a lot of love and encouragement from my parents, other family and friends. Yet in the world of blogs 2014 it’s parents who count and yes they deserve validation but when they cry about their child with NLD: “I fear for his future. I’m so scared,” how do they think I feel?

So when you get angry at me for saying how lucky you are for knowing that your child had NLD at 8 but you wish you had known when he was 4 try to understand how I feel.

I’m not being selfish. Really. I’m sad for all I could have been. It’s not a sadness that overtakes my life but this time of year I think I’m entitled.

October 10th would have been my mother’s birthday. She never thought of me as “disabled” but acted as if I could walk on water. Was it random that I was adopted into my family? I prefer to think of it as beshet–meant to be. Though I’ve always thought of myself as a random sort of person.

We were supposed to celebrate on October 14th but she had fallen that night so we planned the funeral instead.

Oh the guilt I felt for not having spent the night so I could have been there. The guilt I felt for wanting to be in Manhattan the month before when 9/11 took my borough and made it into someplace I no longer knew.

I want a life filled with joy, laughter and good times. I want happiness. Mostly I am but the month between 9/11 and 10/14 makes me melancholy.

And it makes me look at at life through black covered lenses. Take NLD. It would have been great to have known about at 45, 50 even but at not quite 57? What was I supposed to do? Continue devoting my life to self improvement—something I believe is a life long process but at not quite 57 I wasn’t willing to pay for OT, life coaches who are less credentialed than I am and if they know about NLD work with kids and young adults. I understand that they’re the future. I truly do.

I have a blog people read then. It became progressively more difficult to write in it because I began to mourn my own life. I looked at what I had always thought was a better than good life and began thinking: it could have been so great if only…..

Nobody should think about the if only’s.

Life is about so much more than a cluster of disabilities that strike one person. It’s about quiet victories. And joy, happiness, love and fun. I have been blessed, and blessed is the right word here, with wonderful family and friends.

For some of us this begins the most important ten days of the year. It is a time I take more seriously each year though I’m still not sure about the G-d thing. If I’m like my mother and I am in many ways I will be less and less sure each year. But like her I love life with a vengeance. This just means I plan to live it fully.

Comments

I deeply appreciate your honesty here, and I nodded in total agreement about how our culture places value in such bizarre ways–on children birthed, spouses married, promotions gained. For me, when all that falls away, all I really care about (in my own life) are two things:

1) Did you have fun?
2) Were you kind?

I hope these melancholy, slightly mournful days see you coming out the other side feeling renewed and full of feelings of “I rock.”

Thanks Jocelyn. Funny but those are the two things I care about most. I’ve always admired how you stand away from the fray and just write those incredible and usually very funny and often more than insightful posts.

I love reading about your kids–feel like I know them. I love knowing that you love them so much but don’t define yourself through them so when your nest empties you won’t have to go through an existental crisis. I’m not talking work but persona

You feel what you feel. And writing what you feel is important. It’s good reading on top of being important. You make others think.

I definitely don’t define myself in any way at all. I married, I had kids. That doesn’t define me. I hope I’m a good person. I’m not a BAD person, but am I a good person? In the end, we hope to have done minimal harm.

Thank you Bone.
Surely you jest about Facebook–a place I would love were it not for the unstated rules and how a social media company counts your comments (but not in closed groups) and decides how worthy uh popular you are.
Thanks for going through the ride with me this past decade. You more than anybody would know if the toughest days are easier or not